


The Little Things

by casstayinmyass



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, Pillow Talk, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25928578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: Copia makes a confession, but doesn't realize you're awake to hear it.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Reader
Kudos: 31





	The Little Things

Copia had just headed into the bathroom when you had begun to doze off. You were trying to stay awake for him– you always found it much easier to fall asleep with Copia’s arms tucked around your middle, the soft brush of his nose in the nape of your neck. But tonight, you were exhausted by your sisterly duties. The last thing you heard before passing out was the tap turning on. 

In the bathroom, Copia looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t mind his reflection, but he isn’t as confident in his looks as, say, Emeritus III is. Ever since he had taken you as his lover though, you had brought a lot of the confidence back he used to possess in his youth. No longer does he find such fault in the bags under his eyes or the tightening of his clothing. With every adoring affirmation you give him, smiling gets a little easier when he meets his reflection.

Copia takes the warm washcloth, wrings it out a little, and peeks his head around the corner. It’s one of your favourite things to do in the evening– help Copia wash his makeup off. He likes it quite a lot too. “Cara?” His mouth closes as he sees you laying there, passed out. You’re starfished out over both your side and his, neck at an awkward angle and hair covering your face in a mop. Copia heads back into the bathroom, careful not to wake you. He washes the black paint off in broad strokes of the towel on his own, noting how poor a job of it he does now in comparison to you. He dries his hands on his boxers, and gives his exposed belly a little scratch. 

Flicking the light off so that only the bedside table lamp was on, he comes to sit on his edge of the bed as he goes over his mental checklist. He fed the rats. He prepared tomorrow’s sermon. He finished the Third’s paperwork (he did get a little jam on it, but that was nothing compared to what Papa normally got on his spreadsheets.) Yes, everything was taken care of; he could relax. Copia’s eyes come to rest on you. 

“Il mia tenera angela,” he whispers softly. He wants to reach over and brush the hair out of your eyes, but he’s afraid it would wake you. Staring at you like this, so peacefully asleep in his bed, his chambers, so at home and at rest, he’s overcome with an indescribable feeling. “I think tesoro, that I am in love with you,” he whispers, watching your back rise and fall with sleep. “It is in the way you do small things, day to day, you see. I get a feeling when I think of this, it is how I feel when I love something very much, like my bambinos. My rats.” He sighs softly. “It is in the way you fall into sleep against me… your hands on me. The way you remember every night to tell me I worked very hard, that I am enough.” He hangs his head a little, turning away to look out at the moonlit gardens. “I forget this sometimes, you know. I fret and I worry, but you always bring me back to my, eh… my head.” 

Copia sinks lower into the mattress, carving out a small space for him to fit under the covers. “It too is in the way you look at me. You look at me this way when I am talking, or when you are talking, or during the mass.” He reaches forward to finally brush the piece of hair from your face. Your eyelids flutter a little, and Copia bites his lip. “It is in the way you moan my name when I make love to you, when you take me so sweetly inside of you. How you feel around me, making me want you so every day, every night… but most of all cara mia, it is in the way you have never left my side.” He closes his eyes, lower lip trembling. “I have been left by so many now, and have not had many friends. You are my friend. And I hope that… you would be my love.” 

“Okay.”

“Alright, good. I was so wor–” Copia’s eyes shoot open, and he coughs. “O-Oh! I… I had no idea you were… how much of that did you…?” He moans. “Ai, _sono un idiota.”_

“But you’re my idiot,” you smile. You make grabby hands under the sheets, and catch his arms. You pull them in to fit around you, and switch onto your back, snuggling into him. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d cry.”

“Yes, me too,” Copia grumbles. 

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s the only way I ever would’ve heard all of that, anyway.”

“I would have found a sweet way of telling you!” he protests. “Like a card or some fucking thing!” 

“Copia, I would’ve looked like Papa Nihil by the time you told me how you felt.” He laughs into your hair, and you tug him closer. “But you’re right. It is in the little things. It’s in the way you fiddle with your gloves when you’re nervous. It’s in the way you scratch your rats on the head in excitement and tell them about your new songs. It’s in the way you practice those songs and shake your hips when you think nobody’s watching. The way you bring me flowers every day and put them in water by the bed? The way you sneak to the kitchen every other night to finish the dessert leftovers. Yes– I’m the one who finds your crumb-covered laundry, don’t bullshit me.” He manages a sheepish smile, and you ghost your lips over his. “It’s in the way you whisper my name when you fuck me.” He shudders. “It’s in the way you look to me for reassurance when you’re giving your sermons and feel scrutinized. It’s in the way you take my hands and listen to my problems for hours, offering me kisses and wine when I’m finished. You, Copia, are my soulmate. And I love you too.”

He surges forward to capture your lips in a deep kiss, holding you there for what feels like forever. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you reach up to wipe away the couple of tears rolling down his cheeks. “I did not mean to cry,” he huffs a laugh, and you kiss the tear tracks away. He hums. “You did not mention my thighs in all of that. I thought you liked them.” 

“I _do_ –”

“Ohh _Cardinal_ , choke me with your thighs, what nice _thick_ thighs you have, _ehhh_ I am _wet!_ ” He imitates you, and snuggles a leg in between yours. “I do have nice thighs, eh?” 

“Damn right you do.” 

“But yours are nicer. May I squeeze onto them while I eat you out?” 

You blush. “Copia, go the fuck to sleep. You can eat my pussy in the morning.” 


End file.
